Don't tell them
by frenchie93
Summary: Something happened to Sam. Something bad. Something he won't talk about. Can't talk about.
1. Chapter 1

Don't tell them

Author's note: Dean is 19 and Sam 14 in this. It's mainly Sam's POV.

This story wouldn't leave me alone. I kept hearing in my head the words "Don't tell them". That's where the story comes from. It won't be very long (two or three parts).

Please tell me what you think.

Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine.

Warnings: Deals with sensitive subjects. Nothing graphic, mostly implied.

PART ONE

_Shh, don't tell them._

He's awake now, breathing hard, so hard it hurts. _A nightmare, it's okay, just a nightmare_. Except it's not, not really.

He can't help but feel cold, so cold. He puts the blanket closer, his arms wrapping around himself. But he can't get to warm up. Why, why can't he just be _warm._

_Hands, he can feel them._

_Shh, don't tell them._

Sam's alarm go off, time to wake up, put on a show face. Just another day, Sam, just another one.

He wonders all the time. Can they tell the difference ? When he looks around in the street, looking at the people walking by, looking at him but not seeing him, he wonders. Can they tell what happened ? Is it that obvious ? How can I look normal again ?

He's trying really hard not to change anything in his behavior now. The smallest change may indicates that something is wrong with him. Dean will notice. Oh my god, Dean can't ever know.

_Cold hands touching, demanding, hurting. Please make it stop._

_Shh, don't tell them._

School time. In school he can stop, drop the act sometimes, when he's at the library, alone, surrounded by so many words, he can stop pretending. That's when the pain comes, the sadness. Because he's so fucking _broken_. When did he get so broken? And sometimes, when everything is just too much, he lets the tears fall, can feel them on his cheeks. It's wet, disturbing, but he lets them fall anyway. He's powerless against that too. Somewhere along the way he became weak. He hates being weak.

The lady at the desk starts to notice the sad silent boy that comes here every day, she has a worried look on her face. He can't let her get worried. Worried adults lead to questioning. Questions lead to the truth. He will have to find another place to crack. Sam stops going at the library to cry.

Surprisingly the hunts help. They help him focus, focus on something else. They give him back a sense of control. He knows this. He's being doing it all his life. He can prove himself out here.

The killing helps too. It helps when, for the first time, he slides a monster's throat, feels the blood dripping on his hand. He lets a little bit of the anger out. He didn't know he was angry. He doesn't know much these days. But only for a brief moment does he feel better. Because it's not the blood of the right monster. Or his own blood. He wants it to be his own. And when he looks at the face of the monster that he just murdered, his _victim_, he can't help but wonder : « Did my face look like that too ? Who am i killing here ? »

_The pain, it all comes down to it. Pain and hands, hands fucking everywhere. And then, the ripping, he feels it. Feels all the damage it does to his body, feels this weight on him and wants to escape but can't. He thinks of hell and death and blood. He thinks please just kill me._

_Shh, don't tell them._

He goes to public places. The park, the museum, this nice fountain near a really creepy building. When his brother is out, drinking, having fun with a new girl, just _living._ Sam sits there and watch people.

Pick one, anyone, just pick one and tell him, tell her. Tell them how much it fucking hurts. Tell them how you lay awake at night and can't stop thinking about all the blades and guns and your dad's razors, and every other goddamn weapon in the house. Tell them how you weren't always like that. How once upon a time, you were a simple, happy, broody teenager. Tell them how even though back then you complain a lot about your lifestyle, complain a lot about the lack of normalcy in your life, you'll give anything, anything, to just go back to being that boy again.

_Shh don't tell them._

Dean is starting to notice something's wrong ...

He doesn't say anything right away, because he is busy preparing the next hunt with Dad, because he's a Winchester and Winchesters just don't believe in words most of the time.

But then he asks. He asks because for the love of god, he's Dean, just Dean, Sam's _older_ _brother_. And that means something, that fucking means everything to Dean. So he asks.

"Is everything okay ?"

That's not the real question though. Sam knows that, he knows what is brother is really saying here. "Are _you_ okay? Tell me what's wrong and I'll fix it."

He doesn't know what to respond to that. Well, he knows but just can't. He can't just spit it out. He can't get the words, the right ones, to come out of his mouth. When did talking become so hard? He stares at his brother for a second, he has to say something now. If he doesn't, Dean will worry. A worried Dean is bad. A worried Dean means that he will have to tell the truth. It all comes down to that too, the truth. But maybe if he doesn't say it, doesn't speak the truth, then maybe he can pretend it never happened. Maybe he can forget. Forget. Such a simple word, and yet it held so much power here. He needs it. Needs it so badly.

_Shh don't tell them._

He knows what to say to be left alone. He knows what to say to appease his brother. Because that's how it is when you've been living with someone your whole life. That's how it is between_ them_. Sam just knows his brother, so he says:

"I met a girl at school in the other town we were. I liked her."

He says it because girl's troubles, Dean understands. Dean can help with those. Sam used to thing that Dean could help him with anything. He doesn't think so anymore. Some things are just unfixable. Some people too. Dean being Dean, he is happy to give Sam some advice about girls. How to not get attach, how to make sure they're happy when you leave them. But then because Deans is _Dean_, he says:

"You sure that's what has been bothering you?"

The way he said it makes Sam wants to cry. The way his eyes are just looking at him, really looking, like he's here, like he matters. Dean has always been the only to look at him like that. Him and Dad sometimes. He can't disappoint them. Can't let them down. So he says: "Yes, yes that was all."

Sam never starts cutting, even when the need to do it becomes almost unbearable. Before _it_ happened he never truly understood the need to cut in your own flesh. He never understood how people could hurt themselves that way. What good could it procure. But he gets it now. He gets it. And he wishes that he never did. He understands the primal need to cut, to be able to _feel_ something. To take all the pain and focus it on one point, to hurt _physically_. But he never does it because he thinks about Dean, and his dad, and how he can't let them down. And because he thinks that if he starts cutting his wrist he won't be able to stop.

_Shh don't tell them._

It's those words again. He hates those words, hates them like he's never hate anything before. Those are the words that "he" said right after. He hears them all the time. He hears "him" all the time. Whispering in his ears after it's over, taunting him, haunting him, killing him. It's the price he has to pay. Because he wasn't strong enough. Because he just wasn't enough. He didn't manage to escape, to fight "him" off. That's his penitence, hearing those whispered words all the time. When he sleeps, when he eats, when Dean tells him a joke.

_Shh don't tell them._

He can't tell Dean or his dad. He promises himself that he will never tell them...

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Don't tell them

Author's note: Dean is 19 and Sam 14 in this. It's mainly Sam's POV with a little bit of Dean's POV. It's the last part of the story. I hope you enjoy it. Tell me what you think.

Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine.

Warnings: Deals with sensitive subjects. Nothing graphic, mostly implied.

PART TWO

Life goes on. It's been two months since _it_ happened. Sam learned how to take all his emotions and pain and to just push them down his own head. Never let them resurface. He learned how to smile again, even if most of the time the smiles are fake, forced. He learned how to not make Dean worry. How to function normally again. He's better at pretending now. It's been two months since _it_ happened and yet he's unable to move forward. He doesn't want to. Because he thinks of the other boys like him, the other boys that could have been hurt by the same man _before_. But the worst part is when he thinks of the other ones _after_ him. That, he can't get past it. Those boys are his responsibility. The silence is not only costing him but costing _them_. Sam is letting other kids potentially get hurt. He's not saving people anymore. He's a coward now. The guilt keeps him awake at night sometimes. When he can almost hear those boys crying for help. A help they won't receive because Sam is not willing to speak up. He wants to tell them. To explain them how in his world there is just no place for weakness. How he loves his family and is ready to never tell them what happened just so he can remain _Sammy_ in their eyes. Sammy who is a geek boy, who loves reading just as much as Dean loves hunting. Those are excuses, Sam knows. But there are excuses that matter to him.

He needs a plan, anything to keep that man from ever hurting anyone else. A plan that doesn't involve him speaking the truth.

In the end he doesn't have to make a plan. Life interferes. One day is what happened.

That one day changes everything. That one day Sam and Dean are sparring. Joking while doing so. Laughing even. Sam is getting better at laughing. Dean wants to try something new. A new move. So Sam is just happy to help. Because these days he's willing to do just about everything to please his brother. He shouldn't have agreed. He shouldn't have, because the next thing he knows, he's on the ground, face against the cold grass. Dean above him with his knee pressed against his back.

_Shh, don't tell them._

Sam isn't here anymore. He's not sparring in an empty field Dean found. A perfect place to train. He's not safe laughing with his brother. He's back _there_. Back where _it_ happened. He's suffocating. Dying. How many times will he have to die for it to finally just be over. Before he can't stop himself he's yelling, crying, begging:

"Don't touch me. Don't you fucking touch me. Get off me. Please get off me. GET OFF ME."

The world freezes for a second. Or was that more? Sam doesn't know anymore. Sam isn't functioning anymore. Sam isn't _Sam _anymore. He's just a scared little kid, a _hurt_ little kid.

Dean backed off immediately. Like he's been burnt. After hearing the first sounds of distress of his little brother, he released him immediately. He doesn't know what happened. Doesn't know how he screwed up. Just that he did. Big time. He's good at that, screwing up, just ask his Dad. But then the words register. The words Sam said. The words that his brother shouldn't have need to say. Not _ever_. And everything makes sense. Everything just makes fucking sense. He's been wondering for two months what was wrong. _Jesus Christ_. He doesn't wonder anymore. He _knows_. And all he can think is: _No no no no no, not Sammy_.

Sammy. Sammy who seems to be far gone. Sammy who he needs to help, to get out of here. He doesn't know what to say. So he says the only thing that comes to his mind, the only word that he can manage to let roll off his tongue:

"Sammy."

Sam hears that word. Knows that word. He will recognize the person saying it among thousands of people. Sammy. This word holds so much more meaning than just a nickname. The way his brother said it. Like it means everything._ It's okay Sam, it's okay, just breathe, it's Dean. It's Dean. Come back to Dean_. Sam stands up really fast. Breathing hard. Face down. He can't look at his brother. Won't look at him. He thinks _Dean knows_. He _knows_.

_Shh, don't tell them._

And then without a warning, Dean is here. Here, hugging Sam. Hugging him like he hasn't been doing in a very long time. It brings back memories to Sam. Other kinds of memories. Good ones. Memories from when they were kids, way much younger than now. And Dean used to hug him when Sam was sad. Sad is kinda what he feels right now. God he almost forgot what good memories tasted like. Sam wondered if Dean knowing will change anything. He thought Dean would hate him, despise him, be disgusted if he knew. But with his brother holding him like that, like he's trying to fix him just by holding him. Sam doesn't wonder anymore. Because Dean is _Dean_, and Dean would never hate him. No matter what he did. No matter what was done_ to_ him.

No words are exchanged. There is no need. Some hugs are just enough.

They're in the car, driving back to the motel room they're staying in. Sam doesn't know exactly when they left the field and went back in the car. Dean drives silently, no doubt glancing at his brother every two seconds. But Sam won't look at him. He has his face pressed against the window, really hard. Eyes closed, trying to fight off the memories assailing him. He's been doing that for the past two months. He's been getting really good at it. But today it's like he can't. He just can't get the images out of his mind. But he has to. For his brother, he has to. And because he's still a Winchester after all, he manages to control himself. To not shrink and cry and panic. He manages to just stay still against the window of the car, the _impala. _To stay there and breathe. If he can still breathe then maybe there's still hope.

The sound of things breaking is what brings Sam back to the room.

_When did they get back to their motel room?_

Dean is breaking things, anything he can get his hands on. Lamp, chair, table, bottle of beer on the said table. Throwing a punch in the wall. Sam thinks _that had to hurt_. Dean is asking questions. No, not asking, shouting. Sam doesn't know what he's asking, he can't seem to make sense of the words but he has a good idea of what he wants to know. Then Dean is calm again. Or pretending to be. Breathing. Passing a hand over his mouth. He asks:

"A name. I just need a name Sammy. You don't have to tell me anything else, not now. Just give me a name."

_Shh, don't tell them._

Sam shivers but he can do that. He can give him a name. And so he does. And afterward Dean is looking at him with a pained expression on his face. Because he knows that name. That's the name of one of Dad's friend. Well, not really a friend. More like a fellow hunter Dad knows. Not close like Bobby or Caleb. Suddenly all the pieces of the puzzle come together and form the whole picture. Because two months ago Dean had to stay at Pastor Jim for three weeks to recover from a werewolf attack. And even though Sam wanted to stay with his brother, Dad needed him on a hunt. They tracked down a nasty ghost for almost a week before Dad dropped Sam off with _that_ fellow hunter because he had something else to take care of, something he wouldn't talk about, not to Dean, not to Sam. Something that he didn't want Sam involved with. But he didn't want Sam to be alone, not with that thing out there. All of those variables played a part in having Sam alone with a hunter. A trained, dangerous, son of bitch, hunter. And Dean was thousands miles away, with Pastor Jim, recovering. Funny how life works sometimes.

There is a hundred different things that Dean wants to say but instead he just says:

"Stay here, lock the door behind me, and check on the salt lines. Don't go out. Wait for me. I will be back as soon as I can."

He looks at Sam one more time, hesitating about something, like he wants to talk to him. Reassure him. But he doesn't, because he's a Winchester, and Winchesters don't believe in words most of the time. They believe in actions. And then Sam is alone in the motel room. For the first time in nearly two months he stops worrying about the other hurt boys, because Dean will take care of it. That's what brothers are for.

It takes two days for Dean to return. During those two days he checked on Sam half a dozen times. And then Dean is here, Dean is back. And Sam almost asks him:

"Did he scream? Did you make him scream? Did you _hurt_ him as much as he hurt _me_?"

But he doesn't have to. Because he already knows the answers.

Dean is getting them drinks. Strong ones. He said so. He's looking at Sam in the eyes. Not asking him anything.

_Shh, don't tell them._

It's the last time he will hear those words. He realizes now, he never had to _tell_ for Dean to hear him. That's what gives him the courage he so desperately sought and convinces him to say:

"I'm ready to tell you about it..."

Because they're Winchesters, and Winchesters don't believe in words most of the time. But sometimes they do.

The end


End file.
